Renegade 35

by Lou Cameron

  Captain Gringo was more worried about the future than the past. Four of the girls could still walk. Two would have to ride now. He said, “Okay, muchachas, water’s no problem, and short rations will do wonders for your figures. Without ’Sus we may have a time finding that mission on the far slope, but what the hell, it has to be there someplace. We’ll leave some rations here. We can use the tarps to make ponchos for those of you who feel a bit exposed. Let’s get to it.”

  One of the plumper girls asked, “How can you ask us to leave food behind if you mean to keep all those new guns and ammunition?”

  He said, “Easy. I’m in command. When there’s time, I’ll teach some of you to handle the carbines we took from those other hombres. You just never know when even one last lucky shot can make the difference.”

  The naked girl enjoying an early period from concussion told the chubby one to shut up and help her get dressed. In no time at air they were on their way again. Captain Gringo took the lead, well out in front, and did his best to avoid land mines. The ground ahead was hard to see. But he figured that if they stuck close to the cliff face and walked where the ground was rocky instead of smooth and sandy, they had a better chance. So that was what they did.

  After a million years the rock walls to either side fell away. So they had to be on the far side of the pass. But the path refused to drop off ahead. He’d assumed, and Jesus had not seen fit to dispute him, that the Sierra Neblina worked like other ridges called sierras. You were supposed to go over a saw-toothed ridge and down the other side. This one didn’t want to work like that. It was becoming increasingly obvious that this volcanic massif was only called a sierra because it looked like one from the southwest. It was actually more of an edge, more or less straight, of a more complicated mess, once you were up on top of it. He couldn’t see more than a hundred yards in any damned direction. But as he followed the natural path he was beginning to sense the lay of the mist-swept land, sort of. The rises and draws made as much sense as a vast sheet of crumpled tinfoil, complicated by erosion streams running every damned which way as the constant drizzle took individual paths to sea level. Where it wasn’t arroyo or moss-covered rock, elfin would-be trees grew in spooky damp groves. Mossy branches spread at face level by the constant trade winds to clutch at passing heads like witch hands or dragon claws. In the dim light the ghostly little trees looked fuzzy and black. When he lit a cigar in the lee of one, he was startled to see what a bright green it was from the roots up. The dirt it sprang from was covered with emerald moss as well.

  They came at last to a fork in the trail they were following east, if it was a trail and not a deer path. One route tended more to the north, uphill. The other tended more to the south, downhill. As Captain Gringo tried to decide, Gaston joined him to ask why they’d stopped. The American said, “I’d feel better if either of those paths kept the prevailing winds in my face. I know where the trade winds are coming from. I don’t know where either of those trails go.”

  “The one to our right seems more likely to lead to the lowlands, non? Even if the other way led at a more reasonable angle, it leads closer to the haunts of the très amusant El Condor, Dick.”

  “I know. That was inconsiderate as hell for ’Sus to stomp a land mine so early in the game. I’ve been thinking about those bandits. Hakim might have meant that reception back there for El Condor. It must be hard to shop for guns and ammo up in this cloud forest. Maybe it was all to cover Crawford’s column. The place I’d have hit ’em, had I been El Condor, would be on the dry slope farther west. This is no place for a firefight, even when you know the neighborhood.”

  Gaston said, “Perhaps. Mais that only works to a point, Dick. What was to prevent our old and rare Crawford, or one of his pack mules, from stepping on that same land mine?”

  “The guy you shot last night, of course. He was posted up the pass, remember?”

  “Ah, oui, no doubt to warn his friends, no matter which way they might be. It works. I would still rather bump noses with gunrunners than bandits. I vote we take the low road.”

  They did. It wasn’t easy. The path to the right started running uphill again after they’d followed it too far to consider turning back. The wind was worse, and the visibility didn’t get better as they climbed higher into the constant overcast. There was something to be said for pea soup, however. Captain Gringo halted what was left of his party and scouted off-trail a ways. He found a low spot paved with moss and sheltered by a hedge of thick, gnomish brushwood. He went back, found the others in the fog with some difficulty, and led them over to make day camp and coffee. It was shaping up to be a long gray day indeed, and now that it was safe to do so, it was time to rest up and do some serious thinking.

  Building a fire with brushwood that hadn’t been dry in recorded history took some doing. Before they wasted too many matches, Gaston solved the problem by busting up some carbine rounds and mixing gun powder with dry slivers cut from one of the hardwood pack saddles. It was still a near thing, even sheltered from the wet wind. But he finally managed a fire in a nest of boulders. It gave off more smoke than heat, and at this altitude the water boiled before it was hot enough to make good coffee. But it helped. As the six girls huddled around the little fire, trying to warm themselves as well, without much luck, the patient burros turned their rumps to the wind and grazed moss from the rocks with their teeth. Captain Gringo had been wondering if that green carpet was good for anything but slipping on a lot.

  It was the girls who hadn’t been hurt who bitched the most when it was time to press on. That wasn’t hard to understand. The injured got to ride and were in a hurry to rest even more in bed. Everyone else had to walk on slippery moss, barely able to see their hands in front of their faces.

  As Captain Gringo followed the path down through an even darker arroyo, Anita fell in beside him, now more or less recovered and covered more modestly with damp gray canvas. She said, “I have been talking with the others, Ricardo. More than one wishes for to turn back.”

  He said, “I know. Columbus had a hell of a time with that problem. Tell ’em the edge of the world can’t be too far now. The whole damned country’s only a hundred and fifty miles across. Sorry, make that a little over two hundred kilometers. I keep forgetting.”

  She glanced at the stream now running alongside the path, getting wider and noisier as both got lower. She said, “I still have faith in you. You follow this stream because running water always leads somewhere, no?”

  He said it sure did. He didn’t think he ought to point out that it could lead off a cliff or into a trackless swamp. She probably had enough to worry about. He asked how her eye was. She said, “Alas, I fear I shall have an ojo negro by night fall. I am also amoratado all over my upper body. Will this keep you from wishing for to make love to me, Ricardo?”

  “Not unless you’re black and blue where it matters. But hold the thought. It’s not high noon yet.”

  “Es verdad? It seems as if we have been wandering in this fog for at least a week. If it is the middle of the day, for why do I see no sun above us, eh?”

  “It’s there. It’s doing its best. It’s going to get as black as a bitch before the usual sunset time. So let’s see if we can make some time while we can. We’ll probably have to make camp by four or five if we can’t get out of this fog by then.”

  She giggled and said, “Bueno. You shall have to hold me close to keep me from the mountain mists, and nobody will be able to see what we are doing unless they are right on top of us!”

  He was too worried, and the crotch of his pants was too cold and wet, for that to inspire him as it might have. He said, “You’d better drop back, querida. I like you a lot, but I’m out here on point for a reason. I can’t see fifty feet ahead. So I have to keep my ears open.”

  She told him, or warned him, what she’d have open for him come nightfall and dropped back out of sight. It was just as well that she’d done so when, a few minutes later, he heard roaring ahead. He called back to
halt everyone and edged forward along the path. The path didn’t give out exactly, but the stream beside it did, to plunge over a waterfall. He couldn’t see how far down it fell into the swirling mists below. From the sound it was a hell of a ways. The path continued like a ledge clinging to the side of a sheer cliff.

  Gaston joined him. He said, “Better keep everyone here while I scout on ahead. It looks wide enough for the burros. But you never know. I sure don’t want to have to turn a burro around out there over nothing much!”

  Gaston said, “I have a better idea. Let us go back and take that other trail.”

  Captain Gringo said, “We may have to. I hope not. Stay here and keep the girls as happy as you can.”

  Gaston laughed and asked, “All of them? The fat Lolita alone would be as much as a man my age could handle. Mais I shall do my best.”

  Captain Gringo handed Gaston his carbine and moved on, trying not to cling to the rocks to his left. Unless there was room to walk like a man down the middle, there was no sense leading a burro along it, even a burro without a frightened girl clinging to it.

  The ledge led around a bend over a sheer drop that probably would have scared him even worse had he been able to see bottom. But beyond the tricky stretch it widened, and the path ran away from the arroyo up a cleft in the cliff. Everything but the upward grade was an improvement. He went back and told Gaston that it was okay to move on. He sent the Frenchman out on point so he could tell each girl as she passed in turn what lay ahead and not to be frightened. It didn’t work. Half of them started crying, and the plump one Gaston admired said she wouldn’t go. She sat on a rock, pouting, and said it was jake with her if they left her behind. He ignored her for the moment, to herd the others on ahead. He sent the two mounted girls first, knowing that the burros would be steadier. He tethered the other three in line and told Anita to lead them. She said she was afraid. He told her to do it, anyway. So she did. Two other girls followed, sobbing and scraping their hips along the cliff to stay as far from the edge as they could. He called after them, “Don’t do that. Those mossy rocks could knock you off balance.”

  They faded away in the fog, still trying to scrape their skirts off on the slippery rocks. He turned to the spoiled, plump beauty and said, “Let’s go. Hold my hand.”

  She shook her head wildly and said, “No! I won’t. I can’t. Just leave me here. I’ll be all right.”

  He said, “No you won’t. I’m not going to argue. Do you want to walk or do I have to carry you? One way or the other, you’re going, chica.”

  She didn’t reply and she didn’t get up. He reached down, caught a plump wrist, and hauled her to her feet, saying, “I know you’re frightened. Close your eyes if you want. I won’t let you fall.”

  She tried to resist. It wasn’t easy moving that much lard against its will. But he was bigger, and once he had her out over the ghastly drop in any case, she at least stopped trying to get away from him. She stayed as close to him as possible, promising all sorts of shocking things if ever he got her out of this alive.

  He did. It was one of the girls ahead who went over the side. The reason would never be clear. But everyone could hear her screaming as she fell, a long time, down into the mist-filled depths. The bottom was so far that the thud she made could barely be heard. But they could hear it. The girl with Captain Gringo fell to the path. Her efforts to pull her hand from his could have resulted in another ghastly result. So he dropped to one knee and knocked her out with his free fist. Then he picked her up and carried her. It didn’t make the path feel any wider. As he edged around the treacherous bend he saw Gaston dragging the girl ahead to safety. She was hysterical, too, but clinging to Gaston like a limpet. Gaston asked, “What happened, Dick?” and was told: “Beats me. I told ’em not to bounce their butts on the rocks. Everyone else safely across?”

  “Oui, if this adorable child does not pull me over the edge. Be still, my frightened and foolish. The idea is to follow the path, not fly, hein?”

  The two soldiers of fortune soon had both hysterical girls safely up into the cleft. Or into the cleft at any rate. Captain Gringo moved on ahead to scout as well as to have some privacy when he leaned against a big boulder and threw up. He punched the mossy rock with his fist, and that didn’t help, either. He’d been entrusted with ten trusting girls, and so far he’d lost half of them. There had to be a better way.

  They wandered on through the cold gray hell, all but Captain Gringo convinced by now that they’d be lost forever in the clouds. The lay of the land made no sense. It was impossible to judge direction by the sun. When Captain Gringo insisted that the trade winds always blew out of the northeast, Gaston pointed out that the winds could get tricky in mountain country. But he had no better suggestions to offer.

  It was pushing three-thirty, and the light was already getting worse when they stumbled into another unexpected feature of the cloud forest: a narrow, steep-walled valley that made little geological sense. As they followed the trail down into it the scenery got even stranger. The air was clear on the flat valley floor, although the overcast above still made it hard to see far this late in the day. Captain Gringo pointed at a clump ahead and marveled aloud, “Can that be cactus?”

  Gaston said, “Oui, that patch of yucca to the left is a desert species too. Perhaps it does not rain down here too often?”

  Captain Gringo stared up. The overcast whipping across the sky above was as solid as ever. But it was well above the valley floor and apparently kept there by the constant wind. He said, “I get it. It’s dry down here and has to stay dry down here because the fog only settles on stuff it can get at. This is still the coolest desert I’ve ever seen. But why argue?”

  Gaston said, “Oui, it’s the best place to camp we’ve come upon up here, and it’s already getting dark. Eh bien, regard that adorable dead mesquite down the trail! It looks dry enough to burn without tinder!”

  Captain Gringo said, “Hold the thought. We’d best move on a ways and make camp well off the trail. This valley is too good to be true, and people who live around here have to know about it.”

  They moved on. When the valley floor got even flatter, Captain Gringo led his followers off the trail and across a flat paved with bunch grass and yucca to a gentle rise. More pear grew atop it in a thick tangle. Cactus didn’t mind moist air. It thrived on it. Cactus just had to grow where its roots could dry out thoroughly between occasional showers. The rise was a stabilized sand dune. The drainage was good. The sand on the far side was cool—it never got any sun—but it was dry. The girls were delirious with joy as they spread their rolls on the slope to dry a bit as well.

  Captain Gringo called out, “No fires yet. It’s still a little more open than I like, and we’d better scout some before anyone takes off their clothes.”

  He and Gaston moved to the top of the rise, standing in waist-high cactus as they viewed their surroundings. The nearer wall of the valley naturally vanished into the cloud cover to the northeast and the southwest. The ends of the valley, either way, simply faded flatly away into dark, misty distance.

  Captain Gringo said, “The Maxim ought to cover the trail pretty good from up here. I’d still like a better idea what we might have to cover. A garden spot like this is a logical place to build a village, either way. But if there’s nothing within, say, five miles, it’s probably safe to assume that nobody will stumble over us in the dark. You want up the valley or down the valley?”

  Gaston shrugged and said, “I’ll have to look to the northwest. It will be downhill, coming back, and I’ll be in a hurry to see my fat girl before she recovers from that beating you gave her.”

  They split up. Captain Gringo walked down through the camp with his carbine cradled and told the girls to wait until they got back before they made coffee. They looked so happy, it would have been a shame to tell them that they could have no beans tonight.

  He walked out across the same flat floor, pleased to be able to do so without groping ahead. It was now t
wilight, but there was enough light to see a quarter of a mile or so ahead. So he didn’t come near falling off the cliff ahead. He saw that he was running out of semi-desert in plenty of time. He just couldn’t figure what a cliff was doing there in the first place.

  It ran across the valley, from wall to wall, forming a sort of step, as if the similar flat bottom ahead had simply dropped down a good sixty feet. The reason was probably volcanic. Magma moving around deep below had simply pulled the rug out from under the crust, and it had to go somewhere. He studied the unexpected drop-off in the twilight. If there was no obvious way down, he didn’t have to worry about an obvious way up. So they were as safe from attack from that direction as if a very gracious mountain god had erected a wall for them.

  He turned back. He naturally got back to camp well ahead of Gaston. So he told the girls about the drop-off guarding them from farther down the valley. He hauled the Maxim up the rise to brace it among the pear. Then he cut some cactus pads away to give him a clear field of fire to the northwest. And as long as he was at it, he peeled the pads to serve as fodder, not for the burros but for the girls. Hidalgo types might not be as used to cactus salad as the lower classes, but it would be better than nothing. They had to horde the rations they still had until they figured out where the hell they might be.